Darling, I Want to Destroy You
by kieyra
Summary: Anything is possible, if you open your eyes.


Elena doesn't understand, just like Katherine never really did.

He doesn't _want_ to love her.

It's inconvenient. It's humiliating. And it _hurts, _dammit. No one ever believes it. That he, Damon, can feel such a thing as simple pain. Everyone-especially Elena-always focuses on the wrong things about him, the stuff that doesn't really matter.

Yeah, he's made mistakes. Once in a while he's acted rashly. Who hasn't? Doesn't he always apologize?

Somehow Stefan does it right, whatever _it_ is, does it right every time without even trying. Because he cares. Or because he pretends to. And he has an honest face, so it's not like anyone will ever know the difference.

And that's the flame at the heart of the rage that drives Damon-that Stefan doesn't even have to try. Damon _tries_ to be a good person, whatever that means, and it just gets flung back in his face. Every. Single. Time. Stefan just cruises through situations effortlessly; perfect hair, glacial countenance, and that sad, sincere brow. Oh, he can turn on the angst at just the right moment, but somehow it just seems to ennoble him.

Even when he's doing something completely fucked up, somehow Stefan comes out smelling like roses.

And Katherine! What did that evil bitch ever see in Stefan, anyway? Damon feels that if he himself is really as bad as everyone says, Katherine should have recognized that they were kindred souls from the start.

In the back of his head, there's still a little voice saying she _did,_ that Katherine still considers Damon to be her end-game, no matter the other minor scams she's running on everyone; that she'll show up one day and confess it, and then, finally, he'll stop having to try so hard all the time. If there's anyone he could be himself around, it's Katherine.

But he's not sure he wants to be that version of himself anymore. Elena makes him want to be a _better_ version.

It's _infuriating._

He never really had Katherine, not really, sometimes he can admit that to himself now. For an exhilarating, lightning-strike moment he'd thought he had Elena, but it had been an illusion. That was the thought in the back of his head that had been nagging at him: maybe if he could just have her-one of them-just once, really have her, possess her heart and soul, then _he_ could be the one to walk away. And maybe it would cure him of this endless insanity.

Some days he can't even remember which one he's in love with, now that Katherine's back, and he's very much afraid it's both. They're so different, almost opposites, but in a way that makes them seem like two sides of the same disturbing coin.

The illusion of Elena, the reality of Katherine, that night on the porch. That was what had put the thought in his head.

Illusion.

It was a ridiculous idea at first, but it grew and grew, as Elena's disdain for him rose and fell like the tides, never receding far enough to make a difference, never far enough to let him in. She was so good at keeping him at bay, like a wary fencer, and it made it all so much more exciting, and so much _worse. _It made him so angry, and then he'd do something stupid. And the whole thing would start again. He had to find a way to break the cycle.

So he'd gone through some old books. (There were old books lying around everywhere in this damned town.) He'd asked Alaric a few carefully misleading questions. He'd done his research.

He was surprised and elated and terrified by the answers he got.

Damon knew damned well that witches walked the thin ice of good and evil every day; he'd seen witches go bad much more spectacularly than your basically honest (if predatory) vampire ever could. Witches had _subtlety._ Back in the day, they'd take entire townships down with them when they went funny in the head, or got tired of being blamed every time a cow wouldn't give milk. Then you'd hear the stories of mass lynchings or burnings. What no one realized was that the _real_ witch was cackling to herself back in her little house, playing everyone like puppets.

It was enough to put a chill up your back. All those scary wicked-witch stories came from somewhere, after all.

And the Bennett family wasn't the only witch family in this county.

In the end Damon didn't have to go far; two towns over was a much smaller town, Hever, and one conversation in the town pub led him to the town's amateur historian-there was always at least one-and one quick compulsion later, he had confirmed the family name―Bullen-and the legends about them. The Internet gave him the rest.

(The Internet-if it hadn't been for the Internet, Damon might have ended it all decades ago. Even now, on dull nights, he trolled paranormal-interest forums for hours, mercilessly toying with the true believers.)

His plan had its dangers. There was no guarantee the Bullen witches of Hever would be friendly to vampires; even if they were, there was no guarantee they wouldn't kill him on sight just for fun. He had little enough protection from Bonnie, and Bonnie was a novice, her training interrupted by her grandmother's pointless self-sacrifice. There could be no games, no compulsion this time. One mistake and he'd be a ball of flame. That was the other problem with the witches who practiced black magic-they didn't even bother pretending to play by anyone's rules but their own. Bonnie still believed that she was, ultimately, fighting on the side of righteousness, that people were either good or evil, and it made her predictable in a lot of ways. The Bullen witches wouldn't be.

And there was that final, nasty little catch-22: there was no ring to protect you from witches, because the witches _made_ all the rings.

But Damon was so tired just lately, tired of trying so hard to be good. Tired of the knowledge that, deep down, Stefan was actually _much _worse than Damon was, and that eventually everyone would find out and it wouldn't be pretty. Tired of trying to make Elena understand that it was hard to take the sanctity of life very seriously after you'd had a good long look at what people did to each other. Tired of knowing there was no point in explaining how much of it was reflex anyway, and how much of it was bloodlust, and how it didn't mean you couldn't feel anything at all.

So even if the Bullen witches did for him, at least it would be an end. Either way there would be an end.

Because he was absolutely sure that his plan, if it worked, was the one thing Elena would never forgive him for.

* * *

Daytime, he figured, was the time to do it. Night would be too threatening, night might seem like a challenge. Mid-afternoon, tea-time, that was about the right time to catch a witch in a sympathetic mood; if that was possible with a family of witches who leaned towards black magic rather than white.

He approached the house―an old, old house, of course, but meticulously maintained―and could feel the protective magic radiating out from it. Walking up the walkway to the front door was like trying to walk along the floor of the ocean with weights strapped to your feet.

He tried to make his knock a polite, respectful, non-threatening knock.

After a moment he could hear the floorboards creak, and an approaching heartbeat. The door swung open to reveal a woman in her mid thirties, long dark hair with a hint of gray beginning to show at each temple. Pretty face, dark eyes that appraised him like a side of beef, down and then back up to his face. Then a frown.

"Are you lost?" she asked. "I think you must be."

Damon held up his palms in the universal gesture of please-don't-kill me. "Hi. My name's Damon." The woman didn't blink. "Uh," he ventured, "I come in peace?"

He smiled fetchingly. Habit.

She matched his grin. "Sweetheart. You probably don't want to be making Bambi eyes at _me_."

Damon sighed. "That used to work. It really did."

"How long ago, exactly?"

Cards on the table, then. "Hundred years, give or take."

She nodded, unsurprised. So she knew what he was, just like he was damned sure he knew what _she_ was: the current senior witch of her line. It was the way she carried herself, and the way she looked at him so piercingly. This was a woman who was absolutely sure of her place in the world. He'd been looked at that like that before.

"I expect you're one of the vampires causing all the trouble up at Mystic Falls?"

"Only when I can't avoid it."

"Have you tried?"

He thought about it. "Some days more than others."

She frowned again, but her eyes showed faint amusement. "Don't they even _have_ a secret town council up there anymore?"

"Sure," he said. "It took me about ten minutes to infiltrate. The sheriff is a real nice lady, but not what you'd call highly perceptive."

"My grandmother always said the Bennett witches cast a stupidity spell on that whole town."

"Believe me, it would explain a lot."

She crossed her arms. "Well, you're cute and this is entertaining, and frankly it's been a dull afternoon. But we're getting to the part of the conversation where you're going to try something stupid soon, and I'm going to have to light you up like a Christmas tree." He started to protest and she interrupted him, "Don't bother. I can see you've got your best manners on right now, but I can smell Mystic Falls stupidity all over you. And you look like your best manners never last that long. Am I wrong?"

He choked back the first and second things that occurred to him to say; it was so hard _not_ to be a smartass all the time, because it was the only appropriate response to his life. But this was the part where he had to play by someone else's rules.

He swallowed. "You're not wrong," he said, and nodded deferentially.

"Well done," she said. "So you can feign being civilized. We do all have to learn eventually. Even vampires."

She looked him up and down once more. "Well, let's get to it. And no, you can't come inside, so don't ask. You've already got a daywalking ring, which right there is a fine example of why my granny thought everyone in Mystic Falls was suicidally stupid...especially their witches. But never mind. If not that, what else could you want from me?"

"It's going to take some explaining," he said. She looked doubtful. "I'll be throwing myself on your mercy, I assure you." He smiled sparklingly at her, couldn't help it, it was second nature. But this time she didn't call him out on it.

She seemed to consider for a moment. "Come with me."

She led him around to the back of house, and down into what seemed, from above, to be some sort of root cellar, separate from the main house. As they descended the wooden stairs, though, he saw that she used it not only for storing jars and jars of herbs, but also as a sort of underground study. There were electric lights hung from the low ceiling, bookshelves, a little desk. Rugs thrown over the unfinished floorboards. A sofa in one corner, what looked like a small altar in the opposite corner. A small side-table held an electric induction burner, a kettle, and a small tea service.

And sitting there on the desk, incongruous among old books and an actual quill pen and inkwell, was a closed laptop. He walked to the desk, tapped one finger on its aluminum case. "All the comforts," he said.

"It's not the seventeenth century, sweetheart."

"Sure, but there's such a thing as tradition. Where's the black cat? Where's the bubbling cauldron?" He couldn't help flirting with her a little. What was the point of anything, if he didn't have that? "Sacrificial dagger, maybe?"

She nodded. "And it's that kind of thinking that makes people take it in their heads to make magic rings for vampires. Sheer romantic stupidity." She turned the full power of her gaze on him. "It's that kind of thinking gets people killed."

"Don't get me wrong," he said hastily. "I'm a fan of modern technology. I myself _love_ an evening spent with a cup of hot cocoa and Wikipedia."

She walked up to him and held out her hand. He pretended not to understand.

"The ring," she said. "Give it to me. A token of continued good behavior, hear me? Give it to me or walk away. When we're done here, you can have it back."

He thought about it. _Her rules,_ he thought. Her rules all the way. There was no other way to do it.

He slowly slipped the ring off his finger, held it out. Then he hesitated, held it just out of her reach. "I'm trusting you," he said.

"And that's on you, darling." She tilted her head to one side, rested one hand on the smooth curve of her hip. "You don't know me. I don't know you. Sometimes you just have to roll the dice."

He did. With a pang of real misgiving, he handed it to her. He was now effectively trapped here, at least until sunset.

She examined the ring with professional interest, then tossed it up into the air and stepped neatly aside as Damon lurched forward to catch it. With his speed and reflexes, it should have been easy.

But it never fell down again. It was just gone.

He was angry―he _hated_ feeling foolish―and more than a little freaked out, but he tried to keep that off his face. "Nice trick. What did you do to it?"

"It's fine," she said.

"But where is it?"

"It's just...elsewhere, for the time being," she said. "After all, as a very wise witch once said, everything has to be somewhere." She moved to the little sofa and sat down. She patted the cushion opposite her. "Relax. You'll get your ring back. I'm not feeling all that noble today. Besides, I find that killing vampires is never as satisfying as one would hope."

"Oh?" he asked nervously.

"It's just too damned _easy_."

* * *

Elizabeth was her name, Elizabeth Anne Bullen, and no, she would not answer to Liz, she said, which was a relief. She had long legs, a narrow waist, and hips bordering on matronly, all of which she played to advantage with a long flowing skirt and a tight camisole top. She also had an unnerving way of finishing your sentences for you, like she was reading your half of the dialogue in her head and couldn't be bothered to wait for you to catch up.

Damon told her his story. He tried to be as honest with her as he could. He didn't see what else there was to do.

She nodded from time to time, interrupted less and less as the story went on.

Finally she said, "And this girl is how old?"

"Which one?"

"Don't be stupid. The mortal one. I don't care what vampires do to each other."

"Oh. Uh." He was aware of exactly how this was going to sound, but again, there was no point in lying. "Sixteen, maybe seventeen...but it's not like it sounds, she seems so much much older than that..." He cleared his throat. "I'm _not_ a creepy old stalker." He considered. "Or if I am, my brother was one first."

"Oh, don't bother looking all abashed. In my experience some people are just born old. And some never grow up. Besides, it sounds like there's something else going on here. You say she looks just like her ancestress. This other vampire. The one who made you."

"They could be twins. I can't explain it. If anyone can, I don't know it."

She seemed to let that go. "And she's currently sleeping with your brother."

He thought of nighttime trysts he wished he hadn't been able to hear. "Yes."

"Who is also a vampire." She sounded matter-of-fact, like she was ticking things off a list, while she examined her fingernails thoughtfully.

He began to get a little irritated, sure she was toying with him. "If you don't want to help me, just give me back my ring and I'll go."

"Calm down. I never said I wouldn't help, did I?"

"You never said you would, either."

"But now we have a starting point from which to bargain. One night with her, that's what you're asking for?"

"Just one. Can you do it?"

"I can do it. And what are you offering in return?"

He held out his palms. "What do you want? What could I give a witch?"

"Not damn much, I'll grant you that."

He considered. He hadn't thought this part through very well. "How about I owe you a favor? A big one? That's got to count for something, to someone like you. You witches _trade_ in favors, don't you?"

"Among other things." She looked at him with an altogether different expression of a sudden. "Hmm," she said, tilting her head again in a gesture that was quickly becoming familiar.

She slipped out of her sandals, turned towards him on the sofa, leaned back, and swung her long legs up and crosswise over his lap. Her skirt rode up to her knees. One of his hands reflexively settled on her shin. She lazily nudged his knee with one bare foot to regain his wandering attention. "A night for a night, then?" she asked, smiling. "Or an afternoon, as it were."

He was on familiar ground now. He grinned, slid his palm up to rest on her knee. "Why, Miss Bullen," he said silkily. "Whatever do you take me for?"

"Exactly what you are, I expect. But I've been wrong before."

The other hand on her opposite knee now, relishing the warmth, he half-turned to lean in towards her, and began to slide the skirt higher with both hands. "I guess we'll have to find out."

She pushed his hands away lightly, smiling. "I know you've been spending your time with teenagers, darling, but I'm _not_ seventeen and I've got a whole afternoon to kill. A terribly long, boring afternoon. No one will be home for _hours._"

So she was expecting finesse. He could do that.

He started by rubbing her feet. She sighed happily. "That's more like it," she said, closing her eyes.

Sex wasn't the price he'd expected to pay, but he paid willingly enough. It was a pittance in the scheme of things. And it was all right. It was like drinking; it felt good in a distant sort of way, and made it easy to stop thinking for a while; and Miss Bullen did require more of his skill and concentration than his recent conquests, which was a distraction in itself.

Later on, she said, out of breath, "I guess it's true, what they say about vampires. I always wondered."

"Oh, yes," he said, grinning wickedly. "But I'm just getting started." He coaxed another little gasp out of her. "After all," he purred, "deal's a deal."

* * *

It wasn't jewelry, a ring or a necklace like he was expecting. "I can't change _you_," she'd said, after he'd finally worn her out; they sprawled now on the rugs on the wood floor. "Not really. What I can do is change her perception. I'm going to write a spell for you and give you the reagents. It'll be up to you to cast it. You'll have to be near her when you do."

It made sense. Katherine and Elena looked alike, but could Katherine have fooled him for even a moment, back on that porch, if he hadn't wanted to believe so badly? "But...vampires doing magic? Does that even work?"

She shrugged. "How's your Latin?"

"I can fake it."

"The kind of spell I'm going to write for you is...well, think of it like a computer program. Anyone can run it. But to _write_ one, or channel energies on the fly...that's where hereditary talent comes in."

"That doesn't sound very sacred."

She snorted. "Once you realize it _isn't, _the whole world opens up to you. There's no right or wrong, just energy."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"Sorry," she said. "No tech support." She laughed when he frowned. "It'll work."

"Don't you need to see a picture of him or something?"

"You know what he looks like. She does, too. That's all that matters with the approach we're taking here."

"You don't seem like you take this stuff very seriously. Not like the other witches I've met."

"Witches who take it too seriously don't live very long. It's the whole mythos problem, you know. Before you know it you find yourself in some unnecessary battle between good and evil, and you're usually on the wrong side. It's not worth it. Your Bennett witches, they'd think of me as evil, just because I'm not running around constantly getting _involved. _In my family, we use magic to protect our kin and our interests. We don't go around being obvious about it."

"So why are you helping me?"

"You've got a nice smile."

He looked at her. "Seriously."

"Don't push it, sweetheart."

He levered himself on one elbow over her, trailed a finger lightly down her shoulder. "You know, I _am_ a lot older than you. How do you manage to sound so condescending?"

"It goes with the job." She sat up, pushed him gently over onto his back, looked down at him. "Your girl Elena-" she began.

"Not my girl," he said flatly. He stared at the ceiling.

"She sounds like she's in way over her head. She needs a reality check. She needs to stop trusting what she sees with her eyes alone. It may still be possible to save her from this path she's on."

"And you're going to use me to help...save her? Isn't that getting involved?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes we all have to play our part. Sometimes you can see a thing that just needs a little push to happen the right way."

"I thought there wasn't any right or wrong."

"Sweetheart, you're starting to bore me now."

Damon said, "Hey, I'm just asking. The only witch I personally know tried to light me on fire not that long ago."

"She was probably trying to get you to stop talking." She leaned over to kiss him unexpectedly on the forehead. Then she snapped her fingers, and his ring dropped out of thin air into her hand. She gave it to Damon, then she stood up and began pulling her clothes together. "Go hunt something in the woods behind the house. Something on _four_ legs. Find a deer, why don't you? I could use a side of venison for the freezer." She slipped into her skirt gracefully, zipped it up on one side, glanced back at him. "I'll inscribe your spell while you're gone."

* * *

He'd thought about telling her that he, Damon Salvatore, did not do animal blood, not ever, but decided this was no time to stand on principle. He hauled the poor dumb deer back to her yard, dumped it unceremoniously on the grass. He also did not do butchery.

He listened, making sure no one else was near, then walked down into the root cellar.

The witch was sitting at the desk, laptop open to her left, the quill pen in her right hand, parchment in front of her. She wore glasses, which reflected back the screen glare. She didn't seem to notice Damon, so he sat down quietly.

After about ten minutes, she said "All done." She stood, picked up the parchment between a thumb and forefinger, blew on it gently to dry the ink. Then she put it down again and began rummaging on the shelves of glass jars. She talked to herself, saying the names of herbs Damon did not recognize. She seemed to take a pinch of this and that, and put them all into the same little pouch.

When she was done, she handed him the pouch. "Heat these in water that's hot but not boiling. A potpourri warmer will do." Then the parchment, which she'd rolled up and tied with a little piece of twine. "It has to be said aloud. Pronunciation's not as important as intent, so try to focus. And you need to be within say, ten, fifteen yards of her. You'll have twelve hours or so. Good luck, you'll do fine." She took his shoulder and began to steer him towards the stairs.

Bemused, he let himself be herded up and out, to the very edge of her property.

He stopped to face her. "You know," he said, touching her arm. "I was thinking. Depending on how things go for me, well...this could be sort of an ongoing, mutually beneficial relationship. If you know what I mean." Sure, he loved Elena enough to make them both miserable, but he saw no reason to burn bridges.

She shook her head, and he thought he detected a touch of regret. "I expect not to lay eyes on you ever again, sweetheart. Take it as friendly advice."

He gave her his best sad-eyed look. "That hurts, it really does."

"I doubt it. No offense, but I make it a point never to acquire bad habits." She touched his cheek. "But you'll make a nice memory."

He shrugged, then gave her a mock salute, one finger at his temple, and vanished into the dark.

About thirty seconds later, he remembered he had _driven_ to Hever. He reappeared in front of the Bullen house, a little sheepishly. Elizabeth was still standing there, carefully not smirking.

Damon sighed and walked over to his car.

* * *

Katherine was still on the loose, Caroline was still a problem, and Elena and Stefan were as self-righteously insular as ever, but eventually a night came when Damon overheard Stefan talking to Elena on the phone, saying that he was too tired to see her that night.

An hour later, Damon saw Stefan drinking his shot-glass of human blood. Apparently he and Elena had realized it was impractical for him to feed on her every day. A few minutes later, Stefan disappeared into his own room, shut the door firmly behind him.

Damon saw his chance. He didn't hesitate. He rarely hesitated. What was the point? You did what seemed right at the time and cleaned up the mess later.

Just after ten, he crouched in the dark in Elena's yard, not far from her window, hidden as well as he could manage behind a hedge. He could tell she was in her bedroom. He always knew when she was close.

He'd cleared a small area of leaves and brush. He had a bag with a can of sterno, a bottle of water, and an empty tin can. He didn't know what the hell a potpourri warmer was and didn't propose to find out, but hot water was hot water. He worked his lighter out of his jeans pocket, flicked it into life, lit the fuel gel. Careful not to spill any, he dumped the pouch of herbs into the tin can, filled it halfway with water from the bottle, and balanced the can gently on top of the ring of blue flame.

Then he sat back on his heels and waited. The night was chill, but presently steam began to rise in tiny wisps from the herbed water. Damon gave the infusion another five minutes, then took the parchment out of his jacket pocket, the roll of paper now a little flattened and creased.

He cleared his throat and read the words aloud, but softly.

Elizabeth had said intent was the important thing. He tried to clear his mind, tried to think only of why he was doing this. His reasons were, he knew, selfish ones; but she hadn't said the intent had to be _pure_, or altruistic.

Mostly he just thought of Elena.

He completed the incantation. A moment later he was rapping softly on Elena's window.

Elena came to the window, in loose pajama pants and a tank-top, her long glossy hair gathered over one shoulder as though she'd been brushing it.

She opened the window and frowned suspiciously at him. _It didn't work_, Damon thought. _The witch was playing with me. I'll kill her for this. Somehow. _He hesitated, tried to invent an excuse as to why he was here in the middle of the night.

But then Elena's expression smoothed out, and she whispered, "_Stefan_. I just―I didn't expect you to come over tonight."

He stepped inside and took her into his arms. Finally.

It was...relief. Total and overwhelming relief. It was possibly the best thing he'd ever felt. Elizabeth Bullen had been a good time, but Elena was...

_...everything I ever wanted. _

"I couldn't stay away from you any longer," he said. He meant it.

She'd been a little tense in his arms at first, but gradually she melted. She looked up at him. "I didn't want to say so on the phone, because I wanted you to rest, but...I happen to know that Jenna's planning to sneak out in an hour or so to see Alaric. And Jeremy's at Tyler's."

Damon didn't like to think of Jeremy in the Lockwood house, but the kid had a knack for surviving his own stupidity.

She squeezed him. "So, we just have to be quiet until Jenna leaves."

"I can do that."

It was less than hour, but it felt like eternity, an eternity filled with the most exquisite torture possible. She'd turned out the lights, and they lay on Elena's bed, touching and whispering nonsense at each other. Trying not to make noise, not to make the bed or the floorboards creak. It took every ounce of self control Damon had to maintain the quiet, to stay so nearly motionless, with Elena here, now, in his arms. Her legs flexed and relaxed, slowly rubbing against his in patient rhythm. Then they were body against body, her knees between his, his hand on her hip, pulling her up against him. As hard as he could, as tight as he could, without making the bed creak.

He kissed her, and he realized his hands were shaking. So he held on tighter.

They talked in between kisses. They didn't talk about anything important. If she said something he didn't know how to respond to, something only Stefan would know, he'd change the subject or bend his head to kiss her neck. Softly, just softly. No teeth. Never any teeth. He wouldn't be able to stop. But it did the trick to distract her.

"I'm glad you came over after all," she whispered at one point.

"Me too," he said. _This is wrong,_ said a voice in his head. _She doesn't know it's you. _

He pushed that thought aside. It was too late for second-guessing.

"I could kiss you forever," he whispered.

At that moment, they heard the sound of Jenna's keys in the door. They held their breath until they heard her car pull out, drive away.

"You can do more than that now," said Elena. She sat up and took off her top.

Heaven. It was heaven. _She_ was.

He didn't know, exactly, how far and how fast things had gone between Stefan and Elena, had tried not to guess, not to picture it in his mind. So he let her lead at first, which she seemed willing to do. Even if she was ever so slightly nervous, still just a little uncertain and inexperienced. And then, once, after he'd become a little more assertive, she said-

"Oh. That's new." Breathless, a little self-conscious at her own reaction.

"I'm full of surprises," he said. "Relax." He knew tricks Stefan didn't know. He smiled to himself.

And she was―not like Katherine; not like he'd really imagined Elena, either. She was so ice-cold to him all the time, but now alone with him―_with Stefan―_no, with him, dammit―she was really warming up.

Elena had a playful side. He'd always sort of known it, never thought of it in this context. She bit his shoulder teasingly, his neck, his lip. She told him when something felt especially good. She smiled at his evident delight in her. She called him _Baby_.

He felt like he was melting.

She wasn't at all quiet, now that she knew the house was empty.

Finally he said hoarsely: "I don't think I can take much more of this." Meaning the endless foreplay.

She understood. "So don't."

Any pangs of conscience he had left didn't stand a chance, incinerated in the heat of his desire for her. He gritted his teeth, and-

If holding her had been relief, if holding her skin against skin had been heaven...well, there was no word for this.

When he'd been mortal, he'd been passionate, in the old-fashioned sense of the word; headstrong and impulsive and, yes, romantic. Immortality and bitterness had put an edge on him, but you didn't change the base components of your personality. He let himself feel all the things he'd tried to shut down for so long, and the intensity of it left him shaking again.

"Are you all right?" Elena asked softly.

"Elena..." he said.

"What is it?"

But he couldn't talk, so he just kissed her again; and went on.

He said her name again, at the end. And: "I love you."

He didn't hear her response, but he was dazed, incoherent, for whole moments afterwards.

When he was able to think again, he realized Elena was up on one elbow, her leg hooked over one of his, staring at him with a puzzled little frown.

He brushed her hair out of her face. "Sorry," he said. "That was a little... overwhelming."

She smiled and relaxed against him, and they lay quietly for a while.

But eventually Damon recognized the growing awareness of what he knew he had to do. If there was one thing that was more reliable than his tendency to make bad decisions, it was his tendency, lately, to then confess everything and apologize.

The apology wouldn't matter this time. She was going to hate him forever, and rightly so; and if she told Stefan, Stefan would probably try to kill him. And maybe that would be best. He'd known this wouldn't be the ending he was looking for, but at least it would be over, one way or another.

"Elena," he began. "I need to tell you something."

But she put a finger over his lips; then replaced the finger with her own lips. She kissed him softly for a moment, then said, "Not tonight? Okay? It's been such a―such a nice night. Let's just leave it that way. Till tomorrow?"

He relented. "Tomorrow." He could allow himself a few more hours of feeling this way, before he lost everything for good.

She settled down with her head on his chest, just like he'd always imagined she would, and he stroked her hair until she fell asleep.

Eventually he did, too.

But he woke hours later, aware of being in an unfamiliar place. Elena had rolled away from him and was curled up on her other side; she was still breathing deeply and slowly.

He slid out of the bed, listened, and contented himself that Jenna had not returned. But he had a compulsive urge to check the doors and windows of the house. He hated that Elena was so often alone in this damned house, with so many dangers lurking just outside.

_Well, I'm one of them. Aren't I?_

But he made a circuit of the house, and sure enough Jeremy's window was unlocked. "Kid's not going to live to see drinking age," he muttered.

After he checked the front door, he began to head back to Elena's room.

He stopped. He'd seen something. Something not right.

He retraced his steps backwards, alert.

There was just the little table in the foyer. Some letters, keys. Elena's purse.

Elena's purse.

It had a folded piece of paper just barely sticking out of one pocket. That was what had caught his eye.

Not paper. _Parchment. _

He took two steps to the table, hesistated just a moment, and then plucked the piece of parchment out. He unfolded it with trembling hands.

It bore a handwritten note. He recognized the handwriting. He'd been looking at that handwriting for weeks, while he tried to work out Latin pronunciation in his head.

The witch.

_Elena-_

_You don't know me, and I won't trouble to try to convince you of who I am. It doesn't matter. But I have information that may be important to you._

_Sometime soon, you're going to have a visitor you didn't expect. Someone you know. I can't know for sure when it'll happen. This person doesn't want to hurt you; this person cares very deeply for you. But neither will they be what they seem. Keep your eyes open, really open. Keep your wits about you. Try to see the truth you know is actually there in front of you. _

_It'll make sense later. I promise. These things often do._

Damon somehow got the letter folded and back in Elena's purse exactly as it had been. Then, shaking with rage, he left.

* * *

She was awake and waiting for him in the root cellar. Sitting at the desk, she didn't look up from her book when he walked down the stairs.

"You told her," Damon said.

"Thought I made myself clear about you coming back here."

"You _told_ her."

"Of course I told her." Still not looking at him, making a notation in the book while she spoke. "I mean, are you insane? Did you really think I'd let you go in there and take advantage of her like that? Did you really think I had no ethics whatsoever?"

"But...you-" Frustrated, he walked over and slammed his palm down on the top of her desk so she'd _have_ to look at him. When she did, he hissed, "You lied to me."

Elizabeth gazed at him calmly. "I did no such thing. I just gave her enough information to make up her own mind, if she was smart enough to listen. And to look. That's all."

The significance of her words had begun to sink in. "Make up her own mind," he echoed. "Then she―she _let_ me-"

Elizabeth made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Yes, I was afraid that might be the case. Oh well. Her choice. She told you I contacted her?"

He frowned. "No―I saw the letter. I spotted your damned old-fashioned letter-writing parchment-paper _bullshit." _He spat the last sentence defensively, even though he was aware of the irony of defending an intrusion that insignifcant, compared to everything else he'd done. "But she acted like she believed I was Stefan. I mean. I think she did." He hesitated, replaying certain things in his head. "I don't know anymore."

"Then I guess you'd better keep the whole thing to yourself for now. Hadn't you?"

"But if she...if she _wants_ me..." He tried again. "If she wants _me―_"

Elizabeth finally stood up, took off her glasses, walked to him. She touched his cheek, the way she had weeks ago. "All those years behind you, and you still see things so black and white. That's not the way it usually happens with immortals. You want her. You suspect she wants you. So why can't you be together? Is that it? That's what you want to know?"

"Well, yes."

"Because this time, it just doesn't work that way. If you keep trying to force it, you'll never make it happen. Not this time. Don't go back and give her knowing looks, don't make cutesy innuendos, _don't_ drop smartass hints in front of your brother. Don't keep her from being able to square what happened in her own head. She can forgive you for the things you do. Women are like that―to my great personal sorrow, let me tell you. But for this, she won't be able to forgive _herself._ She's going to tell herself she didn't really know it was you, not for sure. So you just let it go, and one day she'll come to you. On her own terms." She frowned. "If what you've told me about Stefan is true, and things go bad, she's might need someone to catch her on the way down. Someone who can protect her."

"One day," he echoed. "This doesn't leave me any better off than I was."

"You've got time. Haven't you?"

"It's all I've got, apparently."

"Oh, cry me a river." She patted him on the arm. "If you can't figure out why you're better off now, then I'm out of advice for you." She nodded towards the stairs. "Go on. Off you go. And for your own sake as much as hers―keep your hands _off_ humans. I know who you are now. And believe me, I don't have nearly the patience of that young Bennett girl."

"But if she _knew _it was me_-_" he persisted.

"Out. Don't make me ask again."

"I'm going, I'm going. Jeez, don't _shove._"

* * *

He slipped back into the house. His growing guilt was mingling with uncertainty, and he kept replaying the witch's words, and everything Elena had said, everything she'd done. He paced in the kitchen.

Finally, he went back to Elena's room. She was still sleeping. He glanced around till he spotted the wastebasket next to her desk. He picked it up. It was mostly empty, and it wasn't long before he found what he was looking for.

The witch's letter, in her purse, had had no envelope; Elena had thrown it away, into the wastebasket. He examined it. The postmark read Hever, and the date one day after Damon had first gone to see the witch.

Elena had had weeks to think about the letter, to ponder what it might mean, and to decide how she would react when the situation presented itself.

It didn't undo what he'd done, and he still wasn't sure, but it made the rest of the night easier to navigate.

He slid quietly into the bed, put his arms around her. She shifted against him and murmured something he couldn't make out.

In a few hours it would be dawn, and he'd need to be gone by then. He knew Stefan was always back by sunrise.

He lay awake the last few hours, while Elena slept quietly and the old house made the occasional creaks and pings of wood expanding and contracting, of the heater switching off and on, of wind in the trees outside.

When the sky was beginning to lighten, he got up carefully; but not before he whispered, "I really do love you, you know."

If she heard or awoke, she gave no sign.

* * *

In the end, Elizabeth was right. It was better.

Now, he could stand to be the same room with Elena without constantly feeling torn between kissing her or throttling her.

Now, he could see her with Stefan, and the pain didn't sear him. It was no more than a sharp sting. He knew exactly what he was missing, because he'd at least been able to visit.

He was nicer to her, but not too nice, because that would give away the game just as surely as anything else.

And once in a while he'd catch her out, in a way he never had before―he'd catch her looking at him with a softened expression, like all her guards were down. Just once, he'd smiled back at her. No malice, no lust, no smugness. Just a smile. Nothing more.

She'd practically tripped over her own feet, getting out of the room and away from him. He'd laughed softly, but it was a good laugh, with no bitterness at all.

He'd figured it out. In the end, what he'd gained―what the spell had given him―was the patience to simply outwait her.

It made all the difference.

END


End file.
